


Untouchable

by pxncey



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Dubious Morality, F/F, Gang Violence, Gangs, POV Second Person, Present Carol Denning, Prison, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxncey/pseuds/pxncey
Summary: The lollipop clatters to the floor and rolls towards you. Carol’s gaze follows the candy, then drags from your feet up to your eyes. “New girl,” she says, nodding at you. “Pass that back to me.”You know you shouldn’t rock the boat. You know you were shivved a week and a half ago. But you just can’t see why this woman is so untouchable. “Why should I?” you ask.Carol’s lips turn to a thin line, and she tilts her head to the side. “Do you want to find out?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [areyoureddiekids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoureddiekids/gifts).



> i’m gay so obviously I had to write a carol fic. 
> 
> some inspo was taken from ‘mine’ by areyoureddiekids !
> 
> anyway about the main chara—you. you’re 34, stubborn, and a dumbass. your name is celia bird. have fun falling in love with carol denning. dumbass. (same)

Obviously, your first night in prison was going to be hard. You just didn’t expect for it to be this fucking hard.

Before you’ve even been an inmate for 24 hours, you get shanked.

You’re still not sure exactly what you did. You know you have a habit of testing people’s boundaries, but you really thought that you‘d successfully kept to yourself all day. Apparently not. You’d retired to your lumpy bed early, hoping to avoid trouble, and you were just beginning to drift off to sleep when you were jolted into awareness by a firm hand over your mouth, and then a splitting pain in your side. The shadow over your body chuckled, then disappeared, and you scrambled out of bed, clutching your bleeding stomach.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” your bunkie had complained when she saw you. Her name was Smith, and she was a large, square-jawed woman in her forties, with minimal belongings. “I thought I told you, no mess.”

The infirmary is even more minimal than Smith’s cell. A few beds and chairs in a single room, with one nurse supervising, until the doctor appears for several minutes, then leaves again.

You‘re given a bandage, some Vicodin, and a sedative. After that, you’re too sleepy to pay attention to your surroundings, so you close your eyes.

—

You wake up from a rough night’s sleep. Your side aches like the time you had appendicitis, and without opening your eyes, you reach down and press lightly on your wound, as if to staunch the pain. When you try to roll over and go back to sleep, you are kept awake by unfamiliar sounds: monitors beeping and other people snoring. Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

Of course. Prison. Somehow you had forgotten.

You glance around at the patients in the infirmary with you. Most of those who are awake glance back, then return to looking down, but one woman stares, hard. You frown at her sceptically. She’s middle aged, with dry, auburn hair, and round glasses. Her eyes are dark, and they burn into you, clearly trying to convey the message that you ought not be staring back at this woman.

You ignore the message, and meet the woman’s temperamental glare as if you’re untouchable and weren’t just shanked. You watch her, and she watches you. The longer you stare, the more you realise that this was a horrible mistake, and you should have just fucking gone back to sleep.

But you don’t stop. And neither does she.

—

Carol Denning. The woman with the round glasses is called Carol Denning.

She’s the highest of the high in C-block, and when you return to Gen Pop, your bunkie tells you that she’s probably going to kill you for looking at her. Lucky for you, for some undisclosed reason, she doesn’t. You do catch her and her crew shooting you glances every now and then, though, and sometimes that’s almost as scary as the thought of being murdered. These women know how to throw a fucking glare. Carol‘s looks in particular always manage to make your heart freeze with fear. When she stares at you, it feels as if you’re the only thing she can see. You are the world—and she wants to destroy you.

Occasionally, when she’s absorbed in her bridge game, or talking to her gang in the yard, you find yourself looking at her too—but only when you’re sure she won’t notice.

This woman seems to draw the attention of everyone around her, like she’s the light in a room of little moths, but most are well-trained enough to resist looking at her as best they can. But you’re different: you’re a foolhardy risk-taker (in other words, a moron), and although sometimes that‘s a liability, sometimes it serves you well. How it will serve you this time is still up in the air, but you’re ready to find out.

—

You’re coming back from the showers when you see Carol at her bridge table unwrapping a red lollipop. This time, you don’t stare, although you do take a second to question why such an allegedly tough woman is so into candy. This is the fourth time you’ve seen her with some kind of sucker or sweet. Before she can finish unwrapping the lollipop though, Reiner, in a fit of chuckles, shoves her in the shoulder, and the sucker clatters to the floor and rolls towards you.

After giving Reiner an unfavourable look, Carol’s gaze follows the candy, then drags from your feet to your eyes. “New girl,” she says, nodding at you. “Pass that back to me.”

You know you shouldn’t rock the boat. You know you were shivved a week and a half ago. But you just can’t see why this woman is so untouchable. “Why should I?” you ask.

Carol’s lips turn to a thin line, and she tilts her head to the side. “Do you want to find out?”

All the women at her bridge table are staring at you. Some look a little impressed, but most look thoroughly disapproving.

“What if I do?” you ask.

A couple of women at the table chuckle, clearly eager to see you get hurt.

“You’re insane,” Carol says, incredulous. You wait for the threat. It doesn’t come. Instead, Carol pats the table. “Come sit with us.”

You’re not an idiot. You know what this means, being allowed to sit at this table. It’s a move that could thoroughly backfire.

That’s never stopped you before, though.

—

You don’t get to sit at Carol’s table often. That makes it all the more special when you do—you’re the only person who isn’t part of the inner circle who gets to sit there, and you’re grateful to have been allowed even once, let alone every couple of weeks.

Some of the women at the table mock you for being a newbie. You sass them. After a while, you start to get the feeling that you have a free pass for backchat. Every time you mouth off at someone, you know Carol could shut you up in a second, but she never does. Even when you sass her.

It’s hardly the happiest situation you’ve been in, but you feel indescribably lucky. This is far less gruelling than you thought prison would be.

—

CO Hellmann wakes you up at 5am on Wednesday morning. You don’t know what’s happening.

“Inmate Bird. You’re switching cells,” he tells you. “Get your shit.”

Confused, you load your belongings and your bedding into your laundry bag, then let Hellmann lead you across the empty common area. There is only one other cell door open. It’s Carol’s.

She’s sitting up in her bed when you come in. “Bottom bunk, Birdie,” she says.

Cautiously, you put your bag down, and sit on the edge of the bed. “Did I do something?” you ask. You don’t even know if you’ve done something right or wrong.

“I was getting sick of Brock,” Carol says, climbing out of her bunk. “Bitch snores like a sledgehammer.”

“What makes you think I’ll be any better?”

Carol folds her arms, and shrugs. “You’re funny. You’re not a pussy. I can live with that.”

Hm. You just wonder if you can live with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any kudos or comments are treasured!
> 
> tumblr is carolsdenning. come say hi :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for self harm

You’ve been bunkmates with Carol for four days when your dad dies.

A heart attack, your mom says on the phone. You feel seconds away from cardiac arrest yourself as you listen to your mother talk. Dad is dead. Dad is dead, and you are in here. You will never see your dad again, because you are in here.

You can’t listen to your mom talk any more. Your ears are ringing too hard. You hang up the receiver, and walk blindly back to your bunk, your eyes burning with tears.

Crying in bed is not much better than crying in front of the rest of the cell block. You feel alone. Thick, heavy tears slide down your face, soaking into your hair, and there is no one to comfort you for miles.

Instead, there is Carol in the top bunk, snapping at you: “Quit whining, Birdie,” she says.

“I’ll whine all I like,” you say, voice choked up. “My dad is dead.”

Carol scoffs. “Fuckin’ lucky. I wish mine was.”

Frustrated by her words, you suppress a sob, and roll over to face the wall.

Moments pass, and you hear Carol get down from her bunk. You assume that she’s leaving the cell. Instead, she sits at the end of your mattress. She sighs. “Birdie,” she says. You ignore her.

“Hey,” she says, voice harsher this time. “Don’t you fuckin’ ignore me.”

“What?” you snap, rolling over to face her. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” she tells you. It’s hardly a heartfelt apology. You’re not even sure she means it.

“Why exactly are you sorry?” you ask. “‘Cause my dad’s dead? Or ‘cause you’re a fucking bitch?”

Her jaw hardens. She pauses for several breaths. You wonder if she’s even going to do anything. Then she grabs your throat.

Shocked, you gasp for air reflexively, and she squeezes tighter. Her teeth are gritted, and her chapped lips are starting to split, thanks to her snarl.

“I really am sorry, you stupid fuck,” she snaps. “You should be grateful I said it at all.”

She releases your throat, and you cough. “I am grateful,” you rasp. “Especially for the choking.”

Carol doesn’t look pleased, but she doesn’t choke you again. Instead, she pushes her glasses up her nose, and before she stands up, you’re certain you see something akin to humour in her eyes.

—

In the days following your dad’s death, you struggle to survive. You wish you were back home, where it was so easy to find ways to distract yourself. Here, there’s no escaping your feelings. There’s no escaping anything.

Craving any kind of high, you steal a plastic knife at dinner one day. It’s practically as dull as a butter knife, but it’ll get the job done. After the dinner rush has cleared, you lie in bed, trousers pushed down enough to expose your hip, and press the knife firmly to your skin. You pause, then drag it swiftly over your hip, squeezing your eyes shut at the sting. It’s only a scratch, just a white line with flecks of blood along it, but it feels good. You open your eyes and make another scratch, but before you can begin to enjoy the endorphins, you’re startled into stillness.

Carol is watching you. She is standing at the end of your bed, staring not at the plastic knife in your hand, but at your face. She looks at you with disgust—but underneath the hardness, you can see something else. She is upset. Disappointed.

Suddenly you feel horribly guilty. You don’t owe Carol anything, but somehow you feel like you’ve let her down. You don’t know what to do to salvage this situation, so you stay frozen.

Eventually, when you try to move, Carol grabs your wrist, and digs her fingers in, hard. Her hand is warmer than yours. “Don’t let me catch you doing this again,” she says, voice low. “It’s a stupid fucking habit.”

You nod. She snatches the knife from your hand, and stashes it in the waistband of her prison issue pants. You fumble with your own waistband, pulling it up to cover the scratches.

Carol glances down at your hip before the marks are completely covered. “Those need dressing?” she asks.

“No,” you tell her, shaking your head. “It’s just a plastic knife.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I’ve seen a fuckin’ spoon manage to do damage in here.”

“Thanks for the warning. Next time I’m sad, I’ll try to eat with my fingers,” you say.

Carol chuckles. You feel special, having made her laugh with your stupid joke, when that’s something that’s considered impossible. You smile too.

You sleep well that night. In the morning, you barely think about your dad. Your mood is finally level for the first time in weeks—but of course, Carol has to screw that up. She spends all day avoiding your gaze, and you can’t figure out why. It leaves you feeling hurt in a way you can’t explain.

The next day, it happens again. No eye contact, no words exchanged. At dinner, you approach her table, hoping to be granted a seat. Carol looks up at you. A couple of seconds go by in which you think maybe she’s going tell you to sit down, but instead, she waves you away, and looks back down at her dinner.

—

After several days of being completely ignored, you have a strange encounter. You catch Carol in the shower block, towel wrapped around her body, her hair wet and her skin damp. You’re under the spray when you see her, and you suddenly feel palpably self conscious. For some reason though, you don’t hide.

She notices you, and stops drying her hair. She blinks slowly. Your stomach turns over.

For a short while, she just watches you. Her eyes don’t drift down your body: they stay fixed on yours, never straying once. You don’t know why, but it starts to become hard to breathe. The shower is tepid, but your skin burns.

When Carol finally leaves, you exhale shakily, and slump against the cold tile wall.

If it weren’t for the clean water washing everything away, you know you’d be wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if U have any thoughts about my writing :~)
> 
> tumblr: carolsdenning


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you pissed at me?” you ask Carol. It’s evening, and you are alone in your bunk with her. It’s been over two weeks since she decided to start ignoring you, and a week and a half since the shower incident. Carol has acknowledged neither the blanking nor the moment in the showers. “If you are, can you tell me what the fuck I did so I can say sorry?”

She says nothing. As if you could have expected anything else.

“Carol?” you prompt.

“I’m not pissed,” Carol says from her bunk.

You scowl. “Then why are you blanking me?”

“I don’t owe you my attention, kid.”

That’s true, you suppose. But you thought you’d been getting somewhere. You thought she liked you. You don’t know how to voice that without sounding like a plaintive child, so you pathetically mutter, “I’m thirty four.”

There’s a pause. “What?”

“You called me ‘kid’. I’m thirty four.”

Carol laughs, but it isn’t a laugh of amusement. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I like, _kid.”_

Frustrated, you roll over in bed. You try to close your eyes and sleep, but your mind won’t shut up, thoughts forming all by themselves. And then you stumble across an idea.

It’s dumb. It’s attention seeking. It’s perfect.

—

You don’t know why exactly you’re doing this—you suppose you’re just angry that Carol’s blanking you. You always did react badly to being ignored.

You sidle up to inmate Thomson in the yard. You’ve heard that she works with D-block. She’s short, with braided red hair and a pointed chin—and she wears blue, like you, which gives you a pass to approach her.

“Hey,” you say, voice low.

Thomson sizes you up. “What do you want?”

“Who can I talk to about working for Barb?”

“Did Carol send you?” Thomson asks, frowning.

You shake your head. “I sent me. I’m sick of Carol. I want to do something useful.”

Thomson purses her lips. “I can help you with that.”

—

Not even two full days have passed when Carol finds out.

Her eyes fall on you in the yard, and you know she knows. Her gaze is sharper than a scalpel, and cold as fuck. She looks disappointed, and deeply, deeply angry. Her colleagues are muttering to her—they must have been the ones who passed on the news—but she doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. She just watches you, like the time in the infirmary.

This time, you realise, she’s going to kill you.

You had been hanging out with a quiet girl you’d made a friend of, Tyler, but suddenly all you want is to get out of here. You can’t have Carol’s eyes on you anymore. The smartest thing to do will be to stay in public, so you mutter a hasty goodbye to Tyler and head back towards the common area, hoping that there will be at least a handful of people there.

The guard at the gate raises his eyebrows at you when you approach him.

“Can I go back to the common area?” you ask. 

He tilts his head to the side, clearly considering saying no. Then he shrugs. “I’m in a giving mood today,” he says, as if he owes an explanation for acting decently, and lets you in.

Your heart is in your throat as you pace quickly down the corridor, head down, hands in your pockets. For this part of the walk back, you’re unsupervised. You feel vulnerable.

You hear footsteps behind you. When you speed up, so do the footsteps, until they catch up. And then you’re grabbed.

With a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, you’re yanked roughly into a maintenance closet, and the door is closed behind you. You thrash, trying to see who’s holding you, trying to get out of their grasp. Suddenly, you’re pinned against the wall. Your head bangs against the concrete, and you cry out in pain. When your vision settles, you see Carol. Her hands are braced against the wall on either side of your body.

You’re shaking. You don’t look her in the eye. Cautiously, you try to steady your breathing.

“You think you’re smart?” she hisses, venom in her voice. “You think you can just go behind my back, and deal with fuckin’ _Barb,_ of all people?”

Bravely, you meet her stare. Your lip trembles. “Why do you give a shit?”

You expect Carol to start spouting some bullshit about C-block loyalty, like she always does. But this time, she doesn’t. “Barb can’t have you,” she says fiercely instead. “I don’t want that cunt anywhere fuckin’ near you. You hear me?”

You don’t answer. You’re too confused. Seconds go by, and you just stare and stare at Carol.

Irritated by your silence, Carol narrows her eyes, and in a flash, she’s gripping your throat in her hand, and pulling you towards her by your neck. “You _hear_ me?”

You shake your head, slowly and deliberately.

Carol’s glare gets even sharper. She tilts her head. “You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re tryin’ to pull?”

“Why do you care?” you say hoarsely. “Why do you care if I deal with Barb?”

Carol releases your throat, frustrated, but her face stays inches from yours. She’s breathing heavily. You can feel her exhales on your cheek.

When she grabs you by the hair, you flinch, expecting her to choke you again. She doesn’t. She pulls you towards her sharply, and kisses you.

It’s shocking, her mouth moving roughly against yours. You gasp for breath, and kiss back as best you can, grasping at her shoulders, trying to steady yourself. Her tongue slides against yours, hot and wet, and your mouth opens up under hers. She kisses with viciousness, and clutches you with something almost akin to desperation, her hands moving over your waist, your shoulders, and your hair again. She twists her fingers in your locks, then suddenly prises your face away from hers.

Panting, you stare at her, and she stares back. Strands of hair fall in your eyes.

“You tell anyone about this,” Carol threatens, voice low, “And you’re dead.”

You nod. Like they’d even believe you if you tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr is carolsdenning :~)


End file.
